A TRIBUTE

Even now I cannot realize that he is dead, and often in the city streets -- on Fifth Avenue in particular -- I find myself glancing ahead for a glimpse of the tall, boyish, familiar figure -- experience once again a flash of the old happy expectancy.

I have lived in many lands, and have known men. I never knew a finer man than Graham Phillips.

His were the clearest, bluest, most honest eyes I ever saw -- eyes that scorned untruth -- eyes that penetrated all sham.

In repose his handsome features were a trifle stern -- and the magic of his smile was the more wonderful -- such a sunny, youthful, engaging smile.

His mere presence in a room was exhilarating. It seemed to freshen the very air with a keen sweetness almost pungent.

He was tall, spare, leisurely, iron-strong; yet figure, features and bearing were delightfully boyish.

Men liked him, women liked him when he liked them.

He was the most honest man I ever knew, clean in mind, clean-cut in body, a little over-serious perhaps, except when among intimates; a little prone to hoist the burdens of the world on his young shoulders.

His was a knightly mind; a paladin character. But he could unbend, and the memory of such hours with him -- hours that can never be again -- hurts more keenly than the memory of calmer and more sober moments.

We agreed in many matters, he and I; in many we differed. To me it was a greater honor to differ in opinion with such a man than to find an entire synod of my own mind.

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• Publication Date: July 3, 2019
• Text-to-Speech: Disabled
• Lending: Disabled
• Print Length: 281 Pages
• File Size: 11 KB